


Post-War Dreams

by belleslettres



Series: Bits and Bobs and Unfinished Thoughts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25863526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belleslettres/pseuds/belleslettres
Summary: After the War, Harry has nightmares.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Bits and Bobs and Unfinished Thoughts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876771
Comments: 6
Kudos: 106





	Post-War Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: You know who owns Harry Potter, and you know it isn't me. 
> 
> YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO COPY THIS TO ANOTHER SITE. IF YOU WISH TO TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORK, PLEASE _ASK_ FOR PERMISSION. THANK YOU.

I awake… not exactly with a start, but all of a sudden, and with the distinct feeling that everything is _not_ all right. I stay very still and listen… but the only sounds I can hear are proper nighttime noises—the soft rustle of the house elves moving about the Castle, cleaning and setting things to right; the rickety sound of the wind moving through the trees in the Forbidden Forest; the grunting snores from Longbottom in the room next door.

What I _don’t_ hear is my roommate’s breathing.

I roll over. Harry Potter’s bed is empty, his covers thrown back, his sheets white in the faint moonlight. 

I roll back over and close my eyes and tell myself that Potter is an eighteen-year-old wizard, more than capable of fighting through his own nightmares. It’s not true though and a moment later, I’m flinging back my own blankets and padding into the common room.

Harry is sitting on the floor in front of the fire, legs pulled up in front of him, staring at the flames.

He doesn’t _own_ pyjamas—he sleeps in his boxers and a tee-shirt if it’s warm, or baggy sweats if it isn’t. Tonight he’s wearing sweatpants so large that I expect he has to hold them up when he walks, and a faded, threadbare Gryffindor tee-shirt that is at least one size too small. It makes him look so fucking fit… and like a lost child.

“Hey,” I say. Softly.

He looks up, his eyes still replaying the nightmare that woke him as the firelight shadows dance across his face. He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he can’t.

I walk past him, behind him, to settle in on the couch. He doesn’t have nightmares every night, but when he does, he needs space. And he needs to not be alone. 

After many moments, he scoots back, and leans against the couch. He doesn’t touch me.

“Sometimes it’s like I can’t believe it’s really over. I can’t believe _he_ is really gone,” he whispers. “I can’t believe everyone is safe. I want to floo Molly… or Andromeda, just to make sure she and Teddy really are safe.” He says it to the fire.

“Did you? Floo them?”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning. Andy wouldn’t thank me for that.” There’s a slight sardonic edge to his voice. I think, maybe, his nightmares are releasing him. Slowly.

Or maybe it’s just a shallow imitation of the voice he always used to use to address me. 

“No,” I say. “I don’t suppose she would.” 

He’s quiet for a long while, then: “I dream… about the people I didn’t save.”

“Who were you dreaming about tonight—or shouldn’t I ask?”

It takes him a moment. “You,” he says finally. “In the fire.”

I know this dream.

“You did save me, you arse.” It’s habit. I _can_ be gentle with him. But when he takes me off guard, snide is what he gets.

The barest smile touches his lips… and disappears. 

“Tonight… I didn’t. You fell.” He’s still watching the fire. 

It should have burnt down to coals by now… but one of the elves must have built it up for him, and it’s burning brightly. We both watch as the flames lick along a log.

“Draco… we were back… in the room… and I reached for you… and your hand… it slipped… I tried _so hard_ , but it just kept slipping… right out of mine and you fell. Into the fire.”

For a moment I see… I _know_ … what he sees. The heat of the fire reflected in my panicked face. My hand reaching out for him. Our fingers brush, but don’t grasp. I’m falling. I can smell burning—fabric, for now. I’m still reaching for him. I’m screaming, but there is no sound.

I swallow. Hard. 

This dream is my dream, and I know it well.

The fire is all around me. Hot. It hurts to breathe. And Harry Potter is flying towards me… reaching out for me… his hand closing around mine.

Sometimes he pulls me onto the back of his broomstick. He reaches back, holding me close. I can smell him—he smells like sunshine and wood shavings—even above the smells of the fire.

Sometimes I fall.

I think I make a small noise, but if I do, Harry doesn’t notice.

I wipe my palm along my thigh. It’s dry now, but I’m wiping away the _memory_ of sweat, of fingers so slippery it’s a miracle he was able to hold on to them at all. I’m wiping away the imagined-memory of them slipping out of Harry’s grasp, the pain of trying to hold onto something that you _can’t_ hold onto. Even in my dreams I don’t feel the fire burn—I wake up falling and screaming. 

“I couldn’t shake it,” Harry says, his voice liquid. “I tell myself that it’s a dream and that I _did_ save you… and I try to go back to sleep. And when I do you’re there in the fire, in the heat of the fire, your hand slipping through mine, and I can’t _hold on_.”

His eyes, bright and green and pleading, look up at me. There’s not a lot of light, but I can see the teardrops glistening on his lashes. 

“You _did_ save me, Harry. You’ve saved me a couple of times, now.”

I reach out my hand. He grabs onto it and lets me pull him, maybe not to safety, but at least up onto the couch. 

Next to me. 

I put my arm around him, and he tucks in close.

It’s almost as if we haven’t spent our entire school careers hexing each other. It’s almost as if I don’t have the Dark Mark, black on my arm.

“I know that dream,” I say softly, carding my fingers through his hair. His hair is thick and heavy, but so very soft. Even though it looks it, it’s never tangled, and my fingers slide easily through the curls. “You always come for me.”

“Do I always save you?” A whisper. With rough edges. 

“No,” I admit. “Not always. Sometimes I _do_ slip through your fingers. And I wake up, falling. Reaching for you.”

He shudders.

“But, Harry, you always come for me.”

_~Fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Writers are fed with kudos and comments!!! I also welcome questions, concerns, and constructive criticism. 
> 
> Everything in this series is something that was unearthed while cleaning out old notebooks or computer files... maybe something that never made it into a final fic, maybe a scene that never really took off. If I like it and want to share it, I will clean it up a bit and put it in here. If it says _Fin_ it's because, so far as I am currently aware, it is. 
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr as [belleslettres-love](https://belleslettres-love.tumblr.com/).


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